


make me (say your name)

by naheka



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom Dick Grayson, Dom Dick Grayson, Dom/sub Undertones, Light BDSM, M/M, Marking, Praise Kink, Top Jason Todd, light comeplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-30
Updated: 2019-12-30
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:13:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21814237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/naheka/pseuds/naheka
Summary: Ostensibly, it's about Jason coming into the fold. What it's actually about is something a little more fun.(Dom bottom Dick, top subby Jason, light bdsm)
Relationships: Dick Grayson/Jason Todd
Comments: 15
Kudos: 344
Collections: Batfam Kinkmas Exchange 2019





	make me (say your name)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lostandlonelybirds (RUNNFROMTHEAK)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RUNNFROMTHEAK/gifts).



> please check tags.
> 
> thanks to sli for doing me a quick beta!

Working with Kori always feels a little uncomfortably like coming home, in a way slipping through the edges of Gotham never has, nevermind that he lived and died there. He grew up with the Outsiders, in a lot of ways, and going back just reminds him of all the ways he fucked up while he was figuring himself out.

Neither of them are Outsiders, not anymore, but Jason’s found the same people breed old dynamics. It’s why he and Tim are generally only civil via text, even though Jason’s pretty sure all the bad blood between them is attempted murder under the bridge. “Jason,” Kori greets, and he smiles at the sound of his name on her tongue.

All the nonsense between all of them, and he’d still die for her, no question. And he’s almost sure she’d do the same for him. So they hug, and he lets her smooth his hair and admonish him for going so long without a call or a text. “Roy’s not comin’,” he tells her. “Lian’s got a fever.”

Kori nods. “He called, and arranged a replacement. How did Lian look?”

Jason snorts. “Thrilled Daddy’s gonna stay home and watch old movies with her. It’s not serious.”

“Good,” Kori says firmly. She tilts her head, thoughtful. “Perhaps she would like some homemade soup.”

Jason has a violent flashback to the last time Kori cooked for him. “Maybe,” he hedges. “Let’s talk about the mission.”

“In a moment,” Kori says serenely. “We’re waiting for Richard.”

Jason tenses. “Dick’s coming? Nobody told me.”

“Arsenal’s replacement.” Kori arches an eyebrow at him. “Problem?”

“No,” Jason grumbles, hunching himself into his jacket subconsciously. “Shoulda known Goldie would be first on everyone’s speed dial.”

“Is he not on yours?” Kori looks slightly admonishing. “It was my understanding that you were on good terms with your family.”

“No one’s on good terms with B,” Jason tells her, “not even Supes or the Princess. They just put up with him better than everyone else because they could drop kick him into the sun if they feel they should, and he’d let them.”

Kori is kind enough not to call him on his lie, which Jason appreciates. Instead she pats him on the head, then tucks him under one arm and lifts off the rooftop into the night sky.

“I coulda took my bike,” Jason complains. “And I thought we were ‘waiting for Richard’.” 

“Richard complains less when we fly,” Kori says tartly, and Jason sighs, going more or less limp in her grip.

“Don’t drop me just ‘cos I’m an asshole.”

Kori gives him a loving sort of shake, gentle enough it’s more of a rocking than anything else. Jason refuses to admit it’s soothing. He guesses he can see why Dick likes this so much; Dick has always looked with particular yearning at the sky, like he knows he oughtta be up there flying around instead of stuck on the ground with the rest of them. Like he’s better than everybody else because he can do a couple of somersaults in freefall. Jason realizes he’s scowling when Kori gives him another little shake.

“Fine,” he says sourly. He can work with Dick just fine, he’s done it a hundred times before. “Fine.”

“Excellent,” Kori says, and lands, floating delicately down to the middle of a clearing and touching down so feather-light Jason hardly feels it.

“Good,” Dick says, stepping out from behind a nearby tree. He’s suited up, the domino casting odd shadows on his face, making his features look elongated and distorted. The white lenses gleam. “He agreed.”

Jason crosses his arms over his chest and glowers, even though Dick won’t be able to see it through the helmet. “For this mission only,” he threatens, and Dick rolls his eyes, the lenses flashing, his head tilting up before focusing on Kori. 

“Is he briefed?”

“He’s with me,” Kori says simply, and when Dick hesitates, she raises a single eyebrow.

Dick folds. “Fine. Look after him, won’t you? B won’t like it if--”

Jason casually shoots a leaf of a branch, approximately six inches from Dick’s temple.

The bastard doesn’t even flinch. He turns his head to look at Jason straight on, a mean smile playing at the corners of his lips. The new angle exposes hints of the scar along his scalp, unnoticeable except if you know where to look for it. “Fool me once,” he says, and wags his finger at Jason. “Tsk tsk, little wing.”

Jason snarls. Then Kori picks him up and flies away. He jerks once in her grip, then sighs. “Again? Really?”

Kori pats the top of his head and gives him a little hug, barrel rolling through a cloud that leaves condensation on the outside of his helmet. “If you knew to ask for it, I wouldn’t have to give it to you.”

Jason blinks. “What the hell does that mean?”

They land on a rooftop, and Jason does a quick visual sweep--they’re in Star, he’s pretty sure, even though it’s been a second since he’s visited their docks. “I thought Queen cleaned up the waterfront.”

“Special circumstances,” Kori says, gaze fixed on the horizon. “Are you prepared?”

Jason thinks he’s pretty well prepared for a guy who keeps getting scooped up and dragged to new locations without ever receiving a briefing, so he pulls his guns and crouches behind a convenient smokestack. “What did you mean,” he continues, like they’re at brunch instead of preparing for… an invasion(?). Can’t have been that serious, if it’s just the three of them. None of them are lightweights by any stretch--Jason knows for a fact that both he and Dick’s League files carry warnings not to engage one on one, even though they’re the both of them mundane. But Dick hasn’t led a League mission since he came back, and Kori’s been busy with the Titans. Even Jason hopes an invasion would warrant more than the three of them, Dick’s experience and Kori’s brute strength aside.

And nobody in that Watchtower would put Jason on the standby list. 

So he asks: “What did you mean? About me asking?”

Kori doesn’t look away, her eyes tracking something in the distance. “I mean you cannot ask for what you need, and you’d rather die than admit what you want.”

“I don’t need anything that I can’t get myself,” Jason bristles, puffing himself up with his fists clenched. “And I don’t _want_ a goddamn thing from--”

“Prepare yourself,” Kori says suddenly, her eyes flaring green, her hands coming up. It’s all the warning Jason gets.

++

“It would have been nice,” Jason pants, an indeterminable amount of time later, crouched under a large chunk of debris. “To get a heads up on fucking _parademons_.”

An eerie laugh echoes against the broken concrete. Dick pokes his head out from another pile of rubble, blood down his cheek, smiling through a fat lip. “But it wouldn’t be as fun, would it?”

Jason half-heartedly throws a rock at him, which Dick doesn’t even bother to dodge. It bounces off his shoulder as he picks his way through the rubble to Jason’s side. In the distance, they can hear booms and see flashes of light.

“Kori called the Titans in,” Dick tells him. “We thought one or two scouts, not a whole company.”

“Hn,” Jason says, frowning. “Didn’t know the League was just as willing as the Bats to throw kids on the front line.”

“Of course,” Dick says, his voice light as feather and something darker roiling beneath. “That’s why he fit in with them so well.”

They share a grin, sharp edged and toothy. “C’mon little wing,” Dick says, cracking his neck and spinning his eskrima stick in one hand, lazy and deadly all at once, those bright fingerstripes all the way up his biceps and down his chest, the electric blue of his emblem and how it matches the neon glow of Jason’s red bat. “Let’s dance.”

++

“Ow,” Jason groans, and tastes blood on his tongue, heavy and metallic. “Fuck.”

He reaches out, fingers scrabbling in the dark, his ears ringing. He thinks--there was an explosion? He’s not sure. 

“N,” he rasps out, trying to shout and only managing a weak sort of croak. “Nightwing? Starfire?”

He blinks, his sight slowly clearing, and tries to move. He groans, long winded and pained, and slumps back onto the ground. He’s not pinned, which is good, but his ribs are fucked, he can feel it, and his vision is dimming again. Footsteps approach.

“Hood!” Dick pops out from behind a large chunk of what Jason thinks might used to have been a bridge, dust thick in his hair and streaked along his suit. “You good?”

Jason forces himself to his feet. “What the fuck even hit--”

Dick’s face has gone tight, lenses wide and jaw clenched. “Drop!” he bellows, and Jason’s doing it before he’s even fully processed the order, crashing down into the dirt and the rocks, his knees screaming with the impact. 

Dick vaults over his head and Jason tracks it, head tilted back, the sun shining through the dust and ringing around him like a halo. The Golden Boy, Jason’s called him, and he looks it now in a way Jason never considered, his hair bloodied and blue electricity arcing from his eskrima sticks. 

He crashes into the parademon just behind Jason, his sticks slamming home between two armored plates with a wet cracking noise, drowned out by the thing’s dying screech, rigid and crackling. Dick plants his feet into its chest and backflips away, landing in a crouch. He spins his sticks in his hands once, watching the parademon twitch and gurgle, and only when its stilled does he relax, turning.

Jason, watching him with wide shocked eyes, on his knees, his head spinning. He’s thankful, distantly, for the helmet, because there’s got to be--naked emotion on his face, and there’s no place for it, not on the battlefield, not in Jason’s heart.

Dick’s lips are moving, but Jason isn’t processing. When he leans over Jason, Jason can smell it on him, the lightning and the blood. He takes Jason’s chin in his hand, his voice clipped and demanding. “Look at me,” he orders.

Jason jerks away--he means to, anyway. What happens is a helpless tilting of his head, the exposure of his throat. Dick’s eyes go wide and Jason remembers himself. “Concussion,” he spits out, and realizes it’s not a lie when he jerks away and his vision narrows. 

Dick taps the side of his helmet. “Can I take it off?”

“No,” Jason says immediately. Then his stomach pitches and under the helmet, he blanches. “Yes,” he says quickly, and deactivates his security protocols. Dick pulls it off, carefully, and sets it aside. Jason scrabbles at Dick’s suit, fingers clawing. His chest locks up, and Dick grabs him around the middle, turning him with enough force that Jason’s ribs scream. He vomits, violent retches that wrack his diaphragm and send frissons of agony through his chest. Finally it stops and he gurgles, twitching against Dick’s careful grip.

Dick eases him onto his back, hid head pillowed in Dick’s lap. “Better?”

Jason flips him off.

Dick chuckles, his lips cracked and pale under all the dust. There’s blood on his teeth, watery and pink against the white gleam of his smile, and a rip in the suit above his left elbow, exposing a thin strip of bare skin, the definition of his muscle and the light blue of his vein. “What hit you?”

“A mack truck,” Jason groans. He gets halfway to his knees, breathing hard, head hanging down as he clings to consciousness. “You need me to keep goin’?”

Dick is quiet for a few seconds, head tilted and eyes unfocused. Right, Jason remembers, the Titans are here. Nobody wants to invite Red Hood to a mindlink, that’s all. “No,” Dick says finally, and he’s looking down at Jason with an odd expression. “You can rest now.” Then he reaches over and stabs Jason with a needle, the dispenser hissing as he feels the sharp prick. 

“Fucker!” Jason snaps, but already he can feel the sweet relief of it, League grade painkillers. He closes his eyes with a sigh and lets himself drift. Dick might be an asshole, but he and Jason are the same kind of assholes, and they understand each other. Dick won’t let anything happen to him, not right now.

Dick’s hand, which had cupped the back of Jason’s head for support, starts to withdraw. Despite himself, Jason makes a tiny noise of loss, and Dick stops, surprised. Jason snarls, furious with Dick and even more so with himself, and starts to roll off Dick’s legs onto the ground. Better to be by yourself in the dirt than need anyone else.

“You’re so stubborn,” Dick murmurs, holding Jason more firmly, and tugs his glove off with his teeth, letting it drop to the ground. “Starfire is coming to extract us,” he explains, and his hand is in Jason’s hair again, moving gently, soothingly. 

Jason relaxes despite himself. “Doesn’t mean anything,” he mumbles, and when Dick tweaks his nose he tries to bite Dick’s hand, which doesn’t do anything except make Dick chuckle again, a rumble of amusement Jason can feel more than he can hear. He stops his petting to touch bare fingers to his ear, head tilted. 

“Starfire will be here in two minutes,” he tells Jason.

Jason butts his head against Dick’s hand.

“Is that so,” Dick says, amused, but his hand starts moving again and Jason sighs, turning his cheek on the rough material of Dick’s suit and letting the little tendrils of unconsciousness unfurl, pulling him under. 

The last thing he remembers is Dick dragging his fingernails across Jason’s scalp, light as anything, the gentle scrape of sensation, the way it sings and shivers. The way he can feel Dick looking at him, the heat of it despite the masks hiding their eyes, the possessive grip on Jason’s wrist, the way Jason dropped to his knees just because Dick told him to.

The way it makes him _want_.

++

He wakes up on the Watchtower, which is a surprise.

Kori is sitting in a plastic chair against the wall, idly reading a fashion magazine. Jason squints at the cover. “You read your own press?”

“Of course,” she replies, without looking up. “Don’t you?”

“Yeah,” Jason mutters, “sure. Gotta whole scrapbook of mugshots and the warrants out for my arrest.”

“A beautiful opportunity for decoupage.”

Jason smiles at the ceiling. “I seem like the kinda guy who decoupages?”

Kori laughs. She stands, moving to his bedside, and adjusts the way a blanket is crumpled about his waist. “Cracked ribs,” she tells him. “It’s not serious, and you’ve been treated.”

Jason can feel the itch of it, that bone powder shit the Martians and Green Lanterns supply. He shifts, grimacing slightly at the alien sensation. “No cuffs with you on guard, huh?”

Kori rolls her eyes. “Outlaws,” she says with a sigh, “little boys playing bow and arrow and pretending they don’t kneel just the same as anyone else.” She tosses her hair, the veritable mane of cascading orange curls, and Jason remembers: Kori was a princess before she was a Titan. “The only one keeping you out of the League is you,” she tells him. Her head tilts. “And Batman,” she allows, “but he’s never endorsed anyone.”

Except Dick, Jason almost says, but he bites it back. Kori isn’t considered a full member either, despite her leadership of the Titans, and he doesn’t need to go kicking at other people’s bruised shins. Dick’s paid the price of it anyway, he figures, a couple times over. Not that Jason is willing to admit it anywhere except his own brain.

“Where’s Nightwing?”

Kori’s eyes gleam.

Jason scowls. “Shuttup, I told you that in confidence.”

She smiles, then bends to kiss his forehead, just above his right eyebrow. “You two would be very good for each other,” she murmurs against the curling lock of hair falling into his eyes. 

Jason’s scowl increases. “Yeah, sure. Very good for B’s heart pressure, too.”

“An added benefit,” she agrees, returning to her chair and her magazine. “I, for one, would like to see it.”

Jason mutters something uncomplimentary about Kori’s ancestry.

“Careful,” she tells him. “I could dropkick you into the sun if I felt like it, and you’d let me.”

++

Superman keeps going in for what is either a handshake or a hug, and Jason is absolutely not cowering behind Donna. Superman finally retreats, saying something dumb and All American about working on a team, his hair curling into his eyes and his dimpled smile, the way Jason’s bones creak when he finally gives in and shakes the boyscout’s hand.

Then he retreats behind Donna again, tucking his nose against the back of her neck. “Is he gone?”

“Don’t be a baby,” Donna says, and reaches behind her to lift Jason up by his collar and bodily move him in front of her. She deposits him on his feet with a small shake and then pats his head. “Good boy.”

Jason crosses his arms and glares. “Can I get a ride off this rock or what?”

“Sure,” Donna says cheerfully. She touches her ear. “N? Got a minute?”

“No!” Jason yelps, grabbing at her wrist and yanking as hard as he can.

“For you?” Dick’s voice responds cheerfully. “I got two.”

Jason’s feet slide across the floor as he attempts, in vain, to sever the connection. 

“Red Hood needs a zeta code and an escort.”

There’s a short pause from Dick’s end, and Jason goes still, in suspense despite himself. “Delta,” he says finally, shortly, and his comm clicks out.

Donna pats him on the head again. “Delta,” she says cheerfully, and nudges him in the right direction. An Amazonian nudge, which causes Jason to stagger sideways before finding his balance again. 

“I hate you,” he says sullenly, and she blows him a kiss goodbye.

++

Dick is leaned up against the zeta tube, eating a piece of licorice. “You want one?” He produces another straw from apparent thin air and offers it to Jason.

Jason glowers. “No. I want to _leave_.”

“No curiosity about how the battle shook out?”

Jason gestures vaguely to everything around them. “I don’t see Darkseid dancing on a hill of corpses. Pretty sure that means we came out on top.”

Dick sticks the two licorice sticks into his upper gums, like fangs, and hisses. Then he laughs, open mouthed, and the candy falls to the floor.

Jason regards him like he would Killer Croc in the gutter: grossly comical but never not dangerous. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

Dick’s smile melts away like it was never there, the sharp cut of his jaw under the harsh lighting, the streak of unnaturally bright alien blood on his boot and the flop of his hair, limp with sweat and dust. “Coming down,” he says simply. “You don’t feel it?”

The buzz in his veins, the green hue of his vision. Jason bites his tongue until he tastes copper. “I don’t feel a damned thing.”

The lenses of Dick’s mask flare, then dull. “Alright,” Dick says, and turns, his fingers tapping.  
“Gotham?”

A denial is on the tip of Jason’s tongue; he almost asks for Starling or even the ‘Haven, just to get a rise out of Dick, but he swallows it down. His head hurts, his ribs hurt, his tongue is too dry and thick in his mouth. He’d kill (again) for a cigarette. And fuck all of that anyway, he’s from Gotham in a way Bruce and Dick will never be. “Yeah.”

Dick doesn’t comment on the pause, just nods without looking up. “Let’s go.”

“Gee thanks mister,” Jason says, pitching his voice high and guileless. “But I’m not supposed to take rides from strangers.”

Dick laughs, his eyes narrowing under the mask as they go squinty with the force of his mirth. It’s--Jason remembers, being six, too small to drag his mom over to the mattress on the floor against the wall and too big to fit under the sink where he used to hide, remembers: looking out the window and seeing the flash of red under a dark cape, pointed green boots and the white glint of his smile. Robin, and how Jason wanted to be him so badly he could taste it, more than he dreamed about Batman kicking down the door and punching his dad out. 

Batman was a legend, a myth, the man his father cursed at for ruining his shoulder the first time he got strung up outside Gotham PD, the bogeyman on the playground and in the back alleyways. Robin was real. A kid just like Jason, except he didn’t have to hide under the sink or stay up to make sure his moms was sleepin’ on her side the way the neighbor boy warned him about.

“I wanted to be you,” he says suddenly, back in the present, and Dick stops laughing. Jason has another flash of almost-forgotten sense memory: Robin, under the moon, the way it made his heart leap and his stomach lurch at the same time. “I wanted you before I even knew what that meant.” 

Dick is quiet; Jason can hear his breathing and the beep of the zeta. “Gotham,” he says, and steps back. 

“Gotham,” Jason agrees. The last thing he sees before he’s zipped away is Dick’s thoughtful face. His hair curls into his eyes just the way Jason remembers.

++

On the seventh day, Jason calls Kori. “This is your fault.”

“Jason,” she greets cheerfully, “when’s the wedding? Roy told me and Donna that we’re all supposed to get you toasters, but that doesn’t sound right. How many toasters does a single Earthling household need?”

Jason hangs up on her. He calls Babs, chickens out before it connects, and dials Tim instead. “Is he coming over or what?”

“Who? Jason? How did you get this number?” There’s a loud crash over the line, then a string of colorful curses and the muffled noises of a phone changing hands.

“Hey,” Stephanie says cheerfully. “So you’re not dead after all.”

“What?”

“Arsenal told B you kicked it. No one believed him, but Dick had to drag Harper out of the Watchtower before everyone saw a founding Leaguer lay out a Titan in front of the observation window.”

Jason cracks a smile. God, it’s been too long since he and Roy shot the shit, if Roy is a bonafide Titan again and Jason is just now hearing about it. “I’ve been laying low for a couple days, that’s all. Healing up.” He leans back in his chair, propping his feet up on the window sill and helping himself to a cigarette, looking out at the drab Gotham harbor. There’s another crash, and a screech that’s too high pitched to be anything but Damian. “Trouble at the homestead?”

“Not my homestead, I just sleep here,” Steph says, still pretty chipper. “Not my ancestral crockery, anyway, that’s for sure. Is it true a parademon headbutted your junk and broke your penis?”

Jason scowls. It’s been too long since he kicked Roy in the shins. “Is Dick there or not?”

“Dick hasn’t been back since the skirmish,” she says, sounding surprised. “Why do you think these idiots are at Defcon 5?” A distinctly British bellow echoes over the line and Jason winces in sympathy. It’s _never_ a good sign when Alfred can be heard from a distance. “That’s my cue,” Steph says. “Try not to kill anybody.”

“Try not to die,” Jason says, and they hang up at the same time.

He’s barely ended the connection, phone still in his hand, when it connects again, without him accepting the call, a blocked number. “Oracle,” he greets.

“Do they make casts for penises?” Babs asks, and he leans back in his chair with a sigh, ashing his cigarette carelessly to the side. Oddly enough, as Oracle she’s more familiar, more safe to him than when she’s Babs. Babs was always Dickie’s, even when she was Jason’s Batgirl, but he’s forged bonds with Oracle under his own name, in his own colors, and he thinks she likes him back (as much as anyone does) for the same reasons. 

If not that, there’s the Joker.

“Your concern warms my heart,” he responds dryly. “You need somethin’?”

“You called me,” she reminds him.

“I hear Big Blue’s in the wind.”

There’s a short pause. “Superman’s been on his normal duty roster for a week.”

“I meant--” Jason blinks at himself. “I meant Nightwing,” he finishes quietly, and listens to Babs think.

“I see,” she says. The call disconnects.

Jason breathes, in and out, the cherry flare of his cigarette and the plumed cone of smoke, the sun setting over the river and the dirt in the tread of his boots.

HIs phone vibrates. _ETA 30 minutes_. 

There’s a brief silence, and then it buzzes again: _get your feet off the windowsill_.

++

Ten minutes before Dick gets there, Jason calls Kori again. “This is your fault,” he reiterates.

“Hey,” Roy says.

“Jesus Christ, does anyone actually answer their own phone anymore? Put Kori on.”

“Fuck you,” Roy says, but Jason can hear him handing the phone over.

“Jason,” Kori says cheerfully, like they’re just continuing their earlier conversations. “Decision on the toasters?”

Jason can hear Roy cackling in the background. He grits his teeth until they grind, then swallows his pride. “Dick’s coming over. Can you call with an emergency in like fifteen minutes?”

“Oh Jason,” she says quietly, and he can’t hear Roy laughing anymore. “I wish you wouldn’t do this to yourself.”

Roy’s a Titan, Steph lives at the Manor, Kori’s got an entire Tower full of baby heroes. Sometimes Jason feels like the Pit froze him, trapped him in his own head in that moment the crowbar broke three of his ribs in the first hit, the pain and the fear and the madness of it, stuck there in amber while everyone else moves on. Babs has Oracle, Tim and Damian get along almost as well as he and Dick did, back in the old days, and Bruce has what? Three new children by now?

The first time Jason’s pops went away for a nickel at Blackgate, Catherine found a place at the Charles Binnerman’s Public Housing Initiative, at the heart of the Narrows. Jason was… young, he thinks. He thinks it might be his earliest memories, his stubby clumsy legs and his chubby fingers and all the other kids with their dark flat eyes and their overgrown hair and their dirty faces, skipping rope in the courtyard with their shoes crunching on the needles, singing: _nobody makes it out of the Binnermans, the Bittermans, the bitter end_.

“This is who I am,” he tells Kori the princess, the model. “It’d never work.”

“You keep us out of your heart with one hand,” she tells him, and it’s a frankness about Jason’s most well kept confessions that startles him into letting her finish. “And with the other you resent us for the distance.”

Jason feels the flush of guilt at the same time the anger hits--his snide thought about Kori, who lived with the Outlaws in abject squalor and complained the least--his fury that they want to take his hate away. “It’s all I have left,” he tells her, because it’s Kori, because they almost slept together before realizing they’d both be thinking about their first Robin. Because it’s true, because Jason was always angry, always half mad with grief, well before the Joker started swinging his crowbar. 

“We are a collection of the wrathful,” Kori says quietly, Kori the princess in exile, who only spoke her native language quietly at night when she thought no one was listening. “But at some point it has to burn out.”

Jason laughs, harsh and rasping. The cigarette’s ash down to the filter and he lets it fall. “And Dick’s the answer? Dick Grayson, Mr. Sunshine?”

“He’s not all lollipops and clouded rainbows,” Kori says tartly, and Jason remembers that they were engaged once. He winces, and flails around for a distraction.

“What the fuck is a clouded rainbow?” He winces again, but Kori just laughs, easy and forgiving, and he smiles despite himself. He misses the Outlaws, misses Roy’s shaggy hair and Kori’s horrifying meals, misses planning missions with Dick and seeing his color stretched across Dick’s chest in a splash of red, just like when they were kids.

“Let us know about the toasters,” Kori tells him, and then: “I love you.”

“I,” Jason says, and stops. Kori blows a kiss through the phone and hangs up.

Jason sighs, tipping his head back to stare at the ceiling and letting his phone fall with a heavy thunk to the floor. “Stop lurking, it’ll give me daddy issues.”

Dick slips out of a shadow in his peripheral vision, a blur of black and blue. “You don’t have them already?”

“Two sets,” Jason tells him. “Beat that.”

“I think my track record speaks for itself.” Dick climbs over him, just like that, no warning or hesitation, and Jason goes so tense it hurts, but somehow Dick has crawled over his shoulder and perched on the windowsill above his feet without touching Jason even once. “I don’t think daddy issues have ever been our problem, little wing. Not really.”

Dick’s father, the traveling man with owls in his blood. Jason’s, in prison so often and so long Jason remembers the indent of Willis’ knuckles in the fridge door more clearly than his face.

“Mommy issues,” Jason offers with a wry twist of his mouth, and Dick returns it, turned just enough that Jason can see a sliver of his profile, the upturned tilt to his lips. “I been blowin’ up the lines,” Jason says simply, because there’s no point in trying to hide it. Everyone he talked to would die before they lied to Dick’s face.

Dick nods, but doesn’t respond. Jason’s left boot shifts on the window, his heel nudging Dick’s ankle and sending a puff of dust up into the still night air. 

“Seems like everyone’s trying to tell me something,” Jason continues, resigned to it. “I can take the hint.” 

Dick turns to face him more directly, brow furrowed. “The hint?”

“I’m twenty-five,” Jason tells him. “I’ve spent more time alone than on teams, I can hack it.”

Dick blinks at him. “You’re twenty five?”

Jason kicks him in the hip, lightly but with steel toes; Dick moves with the motion, turning and propping one leg up. The other dangling, his back against the side of the window, the moon in his hair. Jason forgets the insult he meant to spit. “Yeah,” he says instead. “I’m twenty five.” Not that Dick ever asked, he realizes, and maybe was never told, how old Jason was when Bruce took him in.

Dick just looks at him. “You seem older,” he says quietly, and the slant of his mouth is grieving.

Jason has another realization, right on the heels of the first. “I don’t know how old you are either.” He’d thought of Dick, when they weren’t squabbling over their own insecurities, as almost as old as Bruce. Not old-old, but the cool older popular kid who wouldn’t give Jason a second glance even if he wanted it. But that wasn’t true, was it? Dick hadn’t left to go to college, he’d left to the Titans after he and Bruce fought. The _Teen_ Titans.

“Thirty,” Dick says, and Jason’s feet drop to the floor in surprise. “Well. In the spring, anyway.”

Jason crosses his arms over his chest, smoothing his face back out. “Well. Ain’t that somethin’.” There’s something on the tip of his tongue: a crack about hitting the big 3-0, a joke about creaky knees.

“I’ll be older than my father ever was,” Dick says quietly, and it takes Jason’s words away. 

He blinks. Then slowly, he stretches back out, wedging one foot under Dick’s calf, the other bent behind his back, Jason’s legs spread and Dick sat between them. Dick shifts, his weight leaning against Jason’s knee; his hand lands lightly on Jason’s other ankle. “My mom had me young,” he says, just as soft as Dick did. “She dropped out.”

Dick watches him, steady and calm. 

“My pops was older,” Jason says simply. He doesn’t need to say any more. It’s not a new story, it’s just the one he got born into. 

Dick slides his palm, slow as anything, the drag of the Nightwing glove and the glint of the moon off the blue of the fingers, up Jason’s calf, dipping under his knee and curling before going still. “This isn’t just about getting you into the League.”

Jason raises an eyebrow. “I should hope not.”

Dick does grin then, flash-quick and barely-there. “I didn’t know.”

Jason blinks. “You didn’t know… ?”

Dick’s eyes flash. He reaches up and removes the domino mask, dropping it carelessly to the side, where it falls onto Jason’s cigarette, his ashes. “That you watched me. When I was Robin.”

_I wanted you before I even knew what that meant_

Jason exhales. “That’s when I was a kid, Dick. We aren’t kids anymore.”

“I should hope not,” Dick echoes, just as dry, and it makes Jason smile despite himself. “Will you join?”

Jason shakes his head. “Don’t ask me that, not yet.”

Dick’s head tilts, the blue of his eyes greyed out by the dim light of the moon. He moves, slow and easy, slow enough Jason could lean away, could twist his hips and topple Dick to the floor. “How about something else,” he murmurs, and his voice is graveled steel. “Can I ask you something else?”

Jason’s breathing picks up. “I have sudden sympathy for Midnighter.”

Dick blinks. Then he smiles, big and wide, the genuine amusement bleeding away his flat face and the intensity in his eyes, just for a moment. “Don’t. He’s worse than me.”

“Sympathy for Apollo, then.”

The corners of Dick’s eyes are still crinkled up, even as his face smooths out and goes serious and considering again. “If it pleases you.” He arches an eyebrow. “About my question.”

“Yes,” Jason concedes. “You can ask me something else.”

“Do you want to have sex with me?”

Jason doesn’t know why he was expecting it to be couched, in a metaphor or a coy flutter of Dick’s lashes and the wicked curl of his lip. The bluntness off-foots him. “I--”

Dick is still, stretched out in Jason’s laps, all easy sinew and dense muscle, deceptively slender and effortlessly holding himself with just the point of his toe and one braced grip on Jason’s hip, over the bottom of his holster. His entire weight resting on Jason and Jason can barely feel it, that’s how fucking good Dick Grayson is; Jason’s known it his whole life, growing up in the Narrows, falling asleep at the window with his eyes straining for just one glimpse, just one glance. _Robin_.

“Jason,” Dick murmurs carefully. “Doesn’t have to mean…”

Jason scoffs, interrupting him. “Don’t try to play me, Blue. Not like that.”

“Blue,” Dick hums, his eyes flashing with pleasure. “A nickname just for me.”

Babs, Jason thinks resentfully, is a snitch. “Don’t give it more meaning than it deserves,” he grumbles. “I’ve never been a team player.”

Dick laughs in his face, literally, leaned in close again. His breath smells like coffee and vanilla dip doughnuts. “You’ve spent more time on teams than alone, Jay, don’t get ahistorical on me.”

Jason’s scowl deepens. “I thought we agreed not to talk about that.”

“You brought it up.” Dick lowers himself, just a little, enough for Jason to feel the warmth of his body, the flex of his fingers as he adjusts his grip. “I wanted to talk about something else.”

“You’ve never,” Jason licks his lips, his mouth cotton dry and his heartrate picking up. He clears his throat, pulls his control back by the edges. “You’ve never expressed interest before. This is… sudden.”

Dick exhales. He retreats, just a few inches, but it’s enough Jason isn’t dizzy with it, heady with how close Dick is. “I knew you had self-esteem issues as a kid, Jay, but this is verging on the ridiculous. I’ve been interested for almost a year.”

Jason boggles at him. “You--what?”

“Well,” Dick says, head tilted, voice thoughtful. “Not consecutively. But yes, about a year.”

“Collectively,” Jason muses, his own head tilting to match. “Interesting. Not enough to move you to make an overture.”

“In my defense, you kept going crazy and trying to kill me.”

Jason shrugs. “And you died.”

“And I died.”

It sits in the silence between them for a moment. Then Jason sighs, steeling himself. “Alright. Ask.”

“Do you want to have sex with me?”

“Yes,” Jason replies immediately. He’s never lied about that, not to himself, anyway, and the answer comes easily and without resentment. 

Dick is still watching, his blue eyes and the dark hair curling over them. He needs a haircut, Jason thinks, and then thinks about it some more: his fingers smoothing over Dick’s scalp, guiding the clippers, the buzz of them and Dick’s hair falling away in the mirror, the slow reveal of the twisted scar where the hair doesn’t grow.

When Jason was thirteen, Dick had done just that for him, propped him on the closed toilet seat with a handmirror and buzzed the hair out of his eyes, clearing his vision, providing clarity. Jason doubts Dick remembers that, but he does. It stuck, all the way through the Joker and the Pits and the League: Dick crouched in front of him on the marble floor of Bruce’s master bathroom with his hands gently guiding Jason’s head. Telling him where to look.

It’s an echo, even though it shouldn't be, even though Jason doesn’t really understand it himself. Dick giving him an order in the field felt just the same Dick’s hands on a razor, showing him how to do a full shave with Jason’s shorn locks on the floor around them, dyed black for the sole reason of matching Dick’s shade.

Dick’s finger, still gloved, ghosts around the shell of Jason’s ear. It stirs him from his musings, and he manages a smirk, tipping his head back lazily into the touch. “Something’ else I can do for you, Boy Wonder?”

“Yes.”

Jason’s breath catches; he forces himself to smooth it out. “What is it?”

Dick leans in close, and then closer, face tipped up and eyes shadowed. “Tell me to stop, and I will.”

The potential is heavy on Jason’s tongue, and it would be so easy, so easy to do it. To say stop. He knows Dick wouldn’t push it, probably wouldn’t ever mention what happened or make any further overtures past his standard flirtation. It’s easier, Jason knows, to curl up and let everything you wanted as a kid die around you than to make the plunge.

Dick is waiting him out, patient as anything, still so close.

“I don’t want you to stop,” Jason says, and it’s quiet for how much of himself he’s just flayed open. “I want--” he stumbles over his wordage, uncertain and afraid--afraid of rejection, of himself, of his green Midas touch. “I want,” he repeats, even softer. 

“Yes,” Dick says gently. “I know.”

The kiss is surprising, even though Jason watches him lean in, still slow enough Jason could topple him with only the shifting on his weight. Jason doesn’t shift his wait, and Dick doesn’t pull away, and their kiss is easy, closed mouth and nearly chaste, their chapped lips and coffee breath.

“I know,” Dick repeats, assuring. “I understand.”

The second kiss is harder, Dick’s hands landing on Jason’s shoulder and his weight redistributing, settling himself into Jason’s lap, straddling him. It’s not closed mouth, either, Dick’s tongue sliding against Jason’s, testing the points of his canines. Jason yields without making the conscious decision to do so, and Dick lifts himself up to adjust the angle, bearing down on Jason’s mouth, taking control greedily as Jason gives it up. 

“Fuck,” Jason chokes out, when Dick breaks the kiss only to sink his teeth into the juncture of Jason’s shoulder and neck. He buries a hand in Dick’s hair, and then withdraws when Dick growls, biting down harder. 

Jason mewls, a helpless noise spilling out of his suddenly slack mouth; he bares his throat as much as he can, and his hands grip the bottom of his chair, white knuckled. 

“Yes,” Dick says, and he licks gently at the mark he left, the indent of his teeth and the faintest hint of copper, the bite already coloring up red and purple. Jason moans. “How is it?”

Jason makes a garbled noise that sputters out before he can finish it. 

Dick bites him again, just a few centimeters lower than the first, harder than he had before. “I asked you a question.”

Jason’s head is swimming--two kisses and two hickeys and he’s practically on his knees again--but. Dick asked him a question. “Yes,” he manages, his voice thready and trembling. “It’s good.”

“Good,” Dick echoes, and tickles his nails up the back of Jason’s head, along his neck and through his hair, lazily winding the strands between his fingers. “Let’s aim higher.”

He pulls Jason’s head back with his grip, the pinpricks of sharp pain on Jason’s scalp as he increases the pressure. It’s so good, Jason thinks, dizzy with it. It’s so good, is all he can think, his words scrambling between his brain and his tongue. He’s dimly aware he’s saying it aloud, raspy and thick, dimly aware he’s begging for it, begging for more. 

Dick rocks in his lap, hips pressed flush together, and goes to work taking Jason apart with his lips and tongue. Little nips interspersed with harder longer bites before worrying at his fresh marks, soft lazy laps of his tongue and gentling kisses. It goes on for a long time, the only noises Jason’s ragged breathing, the broken out drag of his half-moans as he tries and fails to swallow them down. “It’s good,” he whispers, and his hands land on Dick’s hips, gripping for stability, anchoring him. 

Dick makes a slight noise, but it’s pleased rather than censoring. He suckles at the hollow of Jason’s throat, completing the ring of purple and red broken capillaries, ringing him like a collar. Jason scrabbles at him, the slick polymers of the Nightwing suit resisting his grip. “Dick,” he murmurs.

“I like the color system,” Dick says, settling back onto his haunches. Jason’s hands have fallen from Dick’s hips, fisted at his sides, his chest is heaving like he’s run a marathon. “It’s easy and universal. But if you have a safeword, we can do that too.”

Jason swallows; he can feel the imprint of Dick’s teeth, can feel where the bruises are forming. It’s… distracting. “What?”

Dick nuzzles at his temple, then licks a drop of sweat away with a hum. 

“Jesus Christ,” Jason chokes out. He can feel the curve of Dick’s smile pressed against his cheek.

“Safeword?” Dick prompts.

Jason swallows again, enjoying the ache and the way it changes with the thump of his pulse. “Colors are fine.”

Dick’s fingers sweep Jason’s bangs out of his face, so effortlessly gentle, the soothing tickle of his nails against Jason’s scalp. “You sure?” he asks, and Jason can feel it, his fingers slowly tightening into fistfulls of Jason’s hair, gripping without pulling. 

Jason’s back arches. “Green,” he rasps, and he’s rewarded. Dick increases the pressure, slow and relentless, until Jason’s staring blankly at the ceiling, his toes curling. 

Dick hums, pleased, and keeps going. Jason’s breath is caught in his chest, the seat of the chair creaking under his white knuckled grip. He needs it, needs to ground himself, and he can’t help the whimper when Dick releases only long enough to knock his hands back to his sides. 

“You should see yourself,” Dick murmurs, dark and silky, and of course he’s a fucking talker but Jason can’t get himself together enough to make a smart comment. Dick bites under his ear, hard and surprising, and Jason jerks, pain lighting him up from the inside out: his throat and his scalp and the tremble in his legs.

Dick’s face enters his field of vision, his eyes swallowed up by the pupil, just a ring of electric blue and Jason’s face reflected in the black. “Gagging for it,” Dick comments, and Jason shivers, a tiny noise escaping.

Dick’s eyes sharpen. “Yes,” he says, almost breathless himself, and then, so soft, right into Jason’s ear, so quiet and cold. “You’re going to beg for it. Again.” He tightens his grip again and Jason wants to grit his teeth, wants to spit and fight--he wants Dick to chase him, wants to crack his knuckles across Dick’s pretty mouth and have Dick to hold him down on the floor and lick the blood away.

And every lingering second of it, Dick is pulling just a bit harder. Until it’s tearingly painful, until Jason moans so long it cracks in the middle, so loud he’d blush if he wasn’t heady with it, how bad he wants it. How much he’s gagging for it. “Please,” he manages, his voice wrecked like he’s been screaming, sweat down his spine like he’s been fighting. “Please.”

Dick releases him, and the sudden relief is achingly overwhelming, the easing contrasted sharply against the jerk in his belly, the yearning to go again, go harder, feel Dick break the skin and crack him open. “It’s alright,” Dick soothes, and kisses Jason’s closed eyelids, first one and then the other. “Color?”

“Yellow,” Jason says quietly, keeping his eyes screwed shut. He’s too unmoored, sick with it, drowning in the feedback loop of sensation and flailing for an anchor.

Dick croons wordlessly into his ear, gentling his ministrations to soft presses of his lips and barely there nuzzles to the nape of Jason’s neck. Jason hears the rip of a zipper, then the light slap of the Nightwing glove hitting the floor. Dick’s bare hand, cups his cheek once, thumb brushing across Jason’s lips, then winds down Jason’s chest, over his clothes and then under his shirt to gently scrape his fingernails across Jason’s belly, his ribs and his sternum. 

Jason shudders, head to toe, and slumps forward, boneless, against Dick’s chest. Dick cradles him close, sturdy and solid, and holds him up, hand stroking Jason’s quivering flank, until Jason’s breathing evens out. 

Dick kisses Jason’s forehead. “Alright, little wing?” Guilt colors his tone. “Too much, wasn’t it?” He exhales, looking cross, and Jason makes an anxious noise despite himself. “No,” Dick assures, kissing his temple again. “I’m displeased with myself, not with you.”

Jason cracks open one eye to glare at Dick as best he can. “Fuck you.”

Dick blinks. Then he smiles, one of the real ones, barely there but with far more sincerity than his usual performative energy. It’s all stripped away--not all the way, he’s still a showy bastard, still likes being center ring--but a lot of his careful deliberate physicality has fallen to the wayside. It’s blinding, Jason thinks, it’s a supernova in the single quirked upturn at the corner of his mouth. “Do you want to?” he asks, and while his tone is detached Jason can feel him, hard against Jason’s hip. “Do you want to fuck me?”

Jason shivers, bracing his feet on the ground to rock up, roll his hips against Dick’s. “I thought,” he says, rough and almost hoping, “that you’d--” He flushes. “That you’d fuck me.”

Dick is utterly delighted. “You’d want that? Truly?”

Jason’s never wanted anything more, not in this moment, not with Dick’s spit drying on his skin and Dick’s possessive marks mottling his throat. “Yes.”

It’s Dick’s turn to shiver. His eyes close, lazily, his head tipped back at the ceiling. When he opens them again he only just slits them, the barest glimmer of blue visible. “I think,” he says, slow and dangerous, and the tone makes the hair rise on the back of Jason’s neck, makes his heart race and his instincts scream at him to _run_. He’s harder than he’s ever been, straining for friction that Dick is refusing to give. “I think you need to earn it, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Jason gasps out, wet and rasped against the blue wings of Dick’s chest, his symbol. “Please.”

Dick kisses the crown of his head; benediction and dark promise all at once. “I’m going to ride you,” he croons, “would you like that, baby?”

Jason moans, his fingers scrambling clumsily and ineffectually at DIck’s suit. “Get this off,” he begs, “c’mon Dickie, I gotta--let me--”

“Shh,” Dick soothes, and gently nudges Jason back against the chair. “I know.” He peels Jason out of his jacket, the heavy slap of leather onto the floor, and follows it with Jason’s shirt and belt, the clink of the metal buckle and the cold air on Jason’s bare chest. “I know what you need.” 

His clever fingers, dextrous and tanned on the zip of Jason’s pants, the other glove pinched between his teeth as he tugs it off, baring both hands, and tosses it aside. “Dick,” Jason murmurs, head lolling, arms slack at his sides. 

“Lift your hips up,” Dick orders, and Jason complies, feeling the drag of fabric across his lower thighs as Dick undresses him. Then it’s just them, Jason naked and Dick still fully clothed in the Nightwing suit. Jason is hard between them, exposed, and he can feel the flush run down his chest, hot and rushing. “Color,” Dick requests, and for all he’s been stripped bare Jason still hasn’t really been touched by Dick, not in the places he desperately needs it.

“Green,” he says, stumbling over it as he strains upward. “Green, green, green--”

Dick curls his fingers around Jason’s cock, and Jason… Jason wishes he still had on his reinforced gloves, wishes he could feel the rough webbed fabric grip him tight and make him cry. “Quiet,” Dick orders, and Jason’s mouth snaps shut, cutting off the internal dialog he was externalizing without realizing it. Dick rewards his obedience with a gentle squeeze, and the brush of his thumb over the head of Jason’s cock. 

“Ah,” Jason yelps, as Dick presses in, and he can feel his cock jerk helplessly against the pressure. When Dick’s hand moves away there’s a streak of white across his fingers; Jason’s precome. Dick licks it away, then leans in close to flatten his tongue against Jason’s cheek, smearing it across his skin along with Dick’s saliva. Marking him. Something tightens in Jason’s belly, hot and wanting, and his mouth is slack and inviting when Dick uses it to clean his fingers. 

Dick presses his thumb into the worst of the bruises around Jason’s neck, and white spots flash in Jason. “Should have known,” Dick is saying when Jason’s brain can process language again. “Should have known you’d like it like this, so fucking perfect, Jesus Christ--”

Jason is babbling, incoherent nonsense that’s dragged out of him, out of his chest through his throat and he can’t stem the tide. He loses the flow of time, everything melting into a soft foggy haze of sensation: Dick’s hands on every inch of him, Dick sucking the outline of a bat across his chest with his teeth and tongue. 

“Alright,” Dick says, settling back after an indeterminable amount of time. Jason’s chest is heaving, great shuddering pants; his fingers ache from how tightly he’s clenched his fists. He’s so hard it hurts, and he never wants it to end. “Phase two,” Dick says, light and playful, and Jason really did lose some time, because Dick’s naked from the waist down and when the hell did that happen? Jason drinks in the sight with eager eyes. 

“You’re a little bit of a pain slut, I think,” Dick continues, like they’re discussing the weather or the latest stakeout. Then he grins, and it’s pure wicked. “Me too.”

Somewhere, in the back of Jason’s mind, he’s thinking that Dick planned this, or at least planned the possibility of this happening, because there’s no way he would have missed Dick prepping himself and there’s no way this, right here--Dick lowering himself onto Jason’s cock, millimeter by agonizingly perfect millimeter--be happening with no prep, no matter how much either of them enjoy a little pain along with their pleasure.

The line of thought dissolves with Dick’s body, soft and hot and so so tight, and the fact that he _isn’t moving_ , just the head of Jason’s cock stretching him out. Jason mewls again, hips twitching, but a hard look from Dick has him stilling again, obedient. “Please,” he begs. “Dickie.”

“Alright,” Dick says, shivering with pleasure to hear Jason beg for it, just like he said he would. “You’ve been good,” he murmurs, and it hits Jason right in the belly, right in his chest. He moans, helpless and louder than he’d allow himself if he wasn’t slipped so sweet and down into his own head, the clean clarity of it, giving it up, giving it to _Dick_.

“Yes,” he exhales, and slumps a little in the chair. Dick kisses him again, his slack mouth, the curl of his tongue against Jason’s, the slow slow bearing down of Dick’s weight, until he’s pressed flush and deep inside with Dick sat firmly in his lap.

“Jason,” Dick breathes, and their temples slide together, sweat-slick, their skin slippery and flushed. “You feel amazing,” Dick continues, right into Jason’s ear, his tone low and sex-drenched. Jason’s blood sings with the praise. “Ready, kiddo?” His tone shifts, more playful, almost mocking, and Jason twitches, because that’s also so good, it’s all so good. 

“Yes,” he repeats, hips and thighs quivering, his head stretched back to beg for more marks on his skin. “Yes.”

Dick’s teeth close around his earlobe, the barest sting of a bite and a light gentle tug. “All you have to do,” he promises silkily, “is what I tell you. You think you can do that?”

“Yes,” Jason says immediately, tinged with desperation. “I can, I promise, I’ll be good.”

“I know.” Dick adjusts his weight, then guides Jason’s hands down to grip the seat under him. His thighs flex as he raises himself up just a few inches, then holds the position, muscles sharply defined, his cock pressed against Jason’s stomach. “Start slow.”

Jason takes a deep breath, ragged and uneven, then grips his seat, plants his feet on the floor, and goes to work. Slow, just like Dick said, even though all he wants is to rut until he comes, slow slow slow, shallow and careful, Dick holding himself still and Jason fucking up into him. He curls his body when Dick nips at his chest, so that Dick can rub himself against Jason’s abs.

And the whole time, Dick croons praise into his ear, how good his cock feels, how Jason’s fucking him just right, dicking him down so good, and-- “--next time I’m gonna wreck you, little wing, would you like that?” Dick pants, and Jason can feel him clench and shudder. “I’m gonna--ah, fuck--yeah, I’m gonna--” Jason thrusts up again, hard this time, and Dick grinds messily against Jason, coming between their bodies. Jason can feel it, wet spurts across his ribs and up his chest, and Dick keeps grinding, rolling his hips in lazy circles, rubbing himself into the mess he’s left on Jason’s skin.

“Please,” he asks again, and his muscles are burning with the exertion, the ends of his hair gone limp, dripping sweat. “Dick--”

Dick traces the bruise of a bat with the tip of his tongue, weight settled firmly down and only very slightly rocking. “I’m going to put you facedown,” he says softly, “on that double bed in the Manor. You know the one, don’t you Jay?” He bites down until Jason cries out, his tone gone cold. “It used to be mine.”

Then he smiles, sunny and easy again, flushed under his dark tan from his orgasm and just as drenched as Jason. The room stinks of it, of sweat and come and sex. “What was I saying? Oh right.” He tweaks Jason’s nipple to make him yelp. “Facedown on your childhood bed, Jayce. _Our_ childhood bed.”

“I’m gonna,” Jason pants, “I’m gonna--”

“Put you facedown with your hands behind your back, get some use out of those handcuffs I used to wear on my belt.”

“Fuck,” Jason manages, face screwed up and head thrown back, the image clear in his mind’s eye, Officer Grayson’s cuffs and his childhood bedspread. “Jesus--”

“I could go slow,” Dick muses, dragging his nails down Jason’s thighs. “Would you want me to?”

He clenches around Jason and Jason chokes, his teeth grinding. Then he exhales; his eyes open. “No,” he says, clear and firm and easy, even though his voice is shot from all the noises Dick’s dragged out of him. “I wouldn’t.”

Dick’s eyes flutter, like just that sentence was enough to make him want to go again. He pulls Jason closer, his fingers rubbing his come into Jason’s skin, crawling up his body to hook them between Jason’s teeth. Jason suckles at them, messily and without grace, drooling from it and then gagging when Dick fucks his mouth. 

“Good boy,” Dick says, and Jason comes.

++

Jason floats back to himself, vaguely cognizant of a damp hot cloth cleaning him up, being cradled and carefully lifted. He enjoys it, until he can’t anymore, can’t let it go--let anything go--without a fight anymore. He opens his eyes. He’s on the couch, wrapped in some kind of blanket, cleaned and dry and warm.

Dick is sitting across from him in a dining chair, fully clothed in the Nightwing suit, eating a doughnut. “Hey,” he says easily, like he’s dropped in for breakfast instead of just finished cracking Jason apart like a walnut while Jason begged for more. “You hungry?”

“No,” Jason says, curling under the blanket and glowering. His stomach rumbles.

“Hm,” Dick says, but all he does is slide the box of doughnuts across the coffee table towards Jason, before withdrawing. He does it all carefully, slowly, lets Jason see both his hands the entire time. Jason hates that he finds it comforting. “How do you feel?”

“Go fuck yourself,” Jason replies, and Dick smiles.

“I always wondered,” he says, through another mouthful of fried dough and powdered sugar. “If you ever got tired of it, the constant fighting.”

“Maybe,” Jason allows, and his voice is still hoarse from their scene. “That doesn’t mean I can stop.”

Dick arches an eyebrow. “Not to ring my own bell, but I’m pretty sure I got you to forget your own name back there.”

Jason is silent. This is what he gets from taking Kori’s advice.

“Jason,” Dick sighs, and he starts to stand, like he wants to move closer, before he stops himself. “I wish you’d cut yourself a break once in a while.” He does stand then, settling the domino back over his face. “I’ll be outside; I understand you need to be alone and I hope you understand it would be irresponsible of me to leave you entirely until the morning.” 

Jason stirs at that. “You can stay,” he allows. “You don’t have to--”

Dick waves a hand. “Don’t sweat it; I understand.” He nudges the box of doughnuts a little closer. “Eat something, okay?”

Jason retrieves a jelly doughnut from the box and nibbles at the edge of it, ignores how the pleased look that flits across Dick’s face makes his stomach jump. “You can,” he says, before he loses his nerve, “bring me breakfast.” He pulls a face at the processed sugar. “Real breakfast.”

Dick’s breath catches. Very slightly, and so quick that even Jason barely catches it, his hands tremble. “Really?”

Jason looks at him, really looks: Bruce’s first son, the founding member of the Titans, the youngest sidekick in the League, Jason’s first Boy Wonder. “Yeah,” he says finally, after a long pause. He remembers when their eyes used to match, before Jason’s went Pit-green. “Really.”

Dick swoops close, quicker than he ought to with how fragile Jason’s feeling. His lips brush Jason’s cheek. “I’ll see you in the morning,” he says, and slips out the window.

“I’m still not joining the fucking League,” Jason calls out after him, and Dick’s cackle, the one Jason hasn’t heard since they were kids, lingers in the air.

Jason sighs, slumping down into the couch and stuffing the doughnut into his mouth. He goes to pull up the blanket to tuck it around himself, and stops dead as he gets a good look at it. Then he laughs, head thrown back, loud enough he knows Dick can hear it outside, because this is--hilarious, and flirty, and a little kinky and a lot wrong-- it’s so Dick, it’s so _them_ , the blanket Dick tucked around Jason’s naked body after they fucked on a chair in front of a window:

It’s the Batman’s cape.

**Author's Note:**

> let me know what you think and I'm on tumblr @ nahekalei


End file.
